


Little Death

by charlotteof_denmark



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cannibalism, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Food, France (Country), Fucked Up, Love, Murder Kink, Poetry, Smut, Traveling, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, i guess...., little series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteof_denmark/pseuds/charlotteof_denmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Moments in Abigail and Hannibal's life if she hadn't died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Ice cream**

‘What are they called?’

‘Drumsticks.'

She opened the rapper of one of the two cones she bought and handed it to Hannibal. He held it, as if it were a foreign object. It was to him. She opened the other and took a small bite.

‘Taste it. For me.’

‘Would you prefer to go at the gelato store?’

She laughed wryly. ‘I’m tired of those weird flavors. Can’t we for once eat something normal?’ she asked.

She watched him across the picnic table they sat at. The sun was right behind him, reflecting on the park’s pond. He licked the cone, frowning.

‘I used to eat these with my dad.’

‘You’re eating one with me,’ he observed, licking the chocolate once again.

Abigail licked the caramel off her lips and shook her head lightly. ‘It’s not the same.’

It was the moment, in their short escapade in Italy where he understood that he could never father her. No matter how hard he tried, she would never be his Mischa. She was not the sun and the light like his sister. She was a storm of chaos and beauty in everything she did. A was for Abigail.

**Flowers**

The lithuanian gardener spoke strange words to Hannibal. Abigail felt out of place in this large noisy marketplace. She knew not a word of lithuanian. Hannibal and the gardener seemed to be talking about flowers, but she wondered why. They seemed very passionate about it.

Hannibal handed her a large white flower. ‘Do you like this one?’

She leaned in to smell it. A bit strong for her, but she nodded.

Hannibal said something to the man.

He started picking several white ones out of a basket. Abigail poked Hannibal’s arm and said to him, ‘I prefer these ones.’ She pointed to small bright red flowers. They were prettier and smelled very faintly.   
Hannibal said something else to the gardener and he put the white flowers back in the basket. Instead, he took the ones Abigail wanted. Later when the walked off, she held them to her heart. How she would have loved to murder Nick Boyle all over again, to have his blood on her hands instead of the corn poppy.

**French lessons**

‘You insist too much on the ‘i’ in ‘voudrait’. It’s not the same as in english. The ‘a’ and the ‘i’ together make the sound ‘eh’. Don’t forget this. Speaking without accent is very important when becoming fluent.’  
‘Voudr _ais_. Sorry. What are other verbs that end in ‘ait’?’  
‘Many. Jouerait, mangerait, ferais, boirais, tuerais, habillerais...’  
Abigail was lying on the living room couch, her legs over the armrests and Hannibal sat at her head.

She reached above her head to find his hand and held it.

‘Je tuerais pour toi.’

**Clinging**

On their first kill together in Europe, they lived in a little penthouse near Warsaw in Poland. They only stayed there for a month. Abigail and Hannibal were not good at picking. But they picked their victim. Abigail was sprayed in blood, looking truly in her role, in her place. The tank top she wore hung low, revealing the sides of her breasts. They were in a dark and abandoned barn. Hannibal didn’t see all of her but he saw enough. The victim was chained to the ceiling and floor. Abigail inspected him, touched him, ran her little knife around his chest, stomach, throat, deciding, not making up her mind. Hannibal obsessed over her every movement; slow, gentle, perfect. He made her and he loved the way she was. His attention was drifting the rain starting to fall on the wooden rooftop. He heard muffled screams through a scarf, a rip through skin, metal shaking. The victim’s fists clung to the cuffs, as if it were going to help his life. His bowels fell at Abigail’s bare feet and she smiled at the dead pig.

**Darling**

The only thing he could hate about her was her inability to believe in herself, to go forward. He wanted her to touch him, to tell him was she was really thinking. Instead they were sitting in a train to Otwock. It had been months. And his hand went to her knee. She said nothing.

**God**

‘You talked about God very much when we were in Baltimore. In our old life.’

‘It is still where I live, you know?’

‘Not really.’

‘I have to go back sometimes.’

‘Yes but that’s not the point. God, Hannibal. What God do you believe in? What God do you pray to?’

‘Death is God. Death is what controls us the most. Don’t you think God is controlling?’

‘You pray to death?’

‘I don’t pray to anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘I did as a child. Things did not turn out quite well.’

‘Me too.’

**Burnt**

One day Abigail was preparing coffee, something very simple, but she burnt herself on the machine. Her whole thumb became red. Hannibal came over to see what she was doing, and he immediately placed her hand to the sink, turning the cold water on. It stung very much. Hannibal dried her hand, taped a band-aid on her thumb and kissed it. Later that evening she came behind him while he cut veal steaks and almost turned him around, but didn’t in the fear of him cutting himself with the large knife he was holding.

**Gone away**

He left her for three days, not telling her where he went. They were four months into their trip. Abigail was feeling as if they would never return home. At least she wouldn’t. But she didn’t have a home anymore really.

When Hannibal came back to Marseille, it was a Friday morning. She had just finished dressing up and saw him get out of his car by the window. She ran out.

Hannibal took her in his arms and whispered her name in her only ear. He knew poor Abigail would forever have a fear of abandonment.

She kissed him and ran back into the house.

It was the first time.

**Who we are**

They enjoyed Marseille very, very much. Maybe too much. Abigail only went swimming all day and came back to Hannibal with shells and stones. She decorated the villa with them. It was her trace. Hannibal rarely went to the beach with her. Once at night time on a cold night when no one was around, they suddenly decided to go for a dive. Their clothes stayed on the sand. When Hannibal thought he’d lost her in the water, she grasped him and he embraced her, kissed her, scraped her skin with his nails, tasting saltwater on her lips, feeling her chest rise against his. This was who they were and would always be.

**Child**

Abigail lay diagonally on Hannibal’s chest while he lay on the grass of their yard.

The first time they met she was dying, she thought.

What she did not know what this monster who seemed to possess her originally had in plan.

One time he even shed a tear in the middle of the night. He had seriously considered taking her life and leaving her. He decided at the last moment not to do it. Thinking of that, Hannibal touched her neck.

With Abigail the story was all a poem. Death at first sight, death at last sight and death at every sight. Little death, child death.

**Weep**

Always the same.

When Abigail cried, which was very rare, Hannibal made her lie on her stomach while he rubbed her back. He always, always knew why she was crying. Everything in her life, he knew or at least knew of. Garrett Jacob Hobbs made her cry the most. If only he could kill that man.

**Euphoria**

What Abigail liked the most was having Hannibal inside her as she straddled him, keeping him there, deep inside her, filling her, feeling the warmth of his body, of him, moving under her. The definition of euphoria suddenly became very different from before; it was like growing up and understanding what sadness actually feels like. She never said his name while they made love. Only half-looming half-carnal cries of pleasure, making him breath ‘Abigail, Abigail...’

She did this often. The eyes of Satan looked at her and destroyed her until she collapsed, sweating and keeping a hand on the place he so rightfully claimed his, realizing that he owned it. The thought of it made her stomach flutter. She wondered if he knew this, if he knew how much she loved this, all of this.

 

 

**Touch**

They often simply sat on the swing of their villa by the sea in Marseille. Hannibal read and Abigail tried to make out the complicated words in french which were written on the pages by Voltaire. She struggled, but she could. Hannibal closed the book and put it aside, bringing Abigail closer to him. He touched her knee like the first time, but grazed his fingers up her floral skirt to touch her, warm and needy. This is what ruined him, when she arched against him and gripped his shoulder.

 

**Like a daughter**

‘What would you think of me studying french literature?’

 

**Partners in crime**

Abigail had murdered 8 people. Hannibal 62. He told her about it, but it only made her jealous and bump her knee on his.

 

**Little in my arms**

‘Why did you stay with me?’

In the afterglow Abigail sat between his legs, laying against his chest while he sat.

‘Hannibal.’

‘Yes?’

‘Why didn’t you kill me then and there?’

‘I almost killed you.’

‘But you didn’t. Why?’

‘I saw opportunity.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of finding... someone... in you.’

She relaxed her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m me.’

‘I thought I could change you.’

‘You have changed me. Here I am, a murderer at 18 studying french literature and drinking wine every night with a strange cannibal.’

‘Do you know Mischa?’

‘Your sister. I know of her.’

‘How?’

Abigail shifted.

‘That’s what you say when you’re sleeping.’

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Animals**

Hannibal did not have a soft side for pets. He only liked animals in his plate. Abigail once came home from the beach with a small brown kitten.

‘Can we keep it?’

Hannibal poured broth in a large pot containing meat and vegetable.

‘No.’

‘But I already gave him a name...’

‘And what might that be?’

She placed the little cat on the counter. ‘William.’

 

**Euphoria II**

When he was deep in her, ramming himself painfully, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails clawing in pleasure, his mouth on her scarred neck, listening her her breathe, her orders to him, ‘faster’ and ‘stop’, when she flipped him and pinned him down on the bed, trying to keep him still, but he always won and brought her back under him, told her not to move in french, when he palmed one of her small breasts as she came, it was euphoria, every time.

 

**Fathers**

One time she called him dad, completely intentionally when he congratulated her on her exam.

‘Thanks dad.’

 

**Sleepless nights**

The problem was, that they both suffered from nightmares and night terrors. Hannibal, who seemed so in control of his body and mind, became feverish and breathless while screaming for help, screaming about how cold he was in another language, and one time saying the name of a little girl he had known a long time ago. Abigail wanted to be saved, crying and panting and pushing someone invisible away from her. If anyone would see this side of them and not only the side that murdered ‘innocent’ lives, others would see how this world had wronged them.

**Birthday**

William was growing into an elegant feline, chasing bugs and small rodents around. It was Abigail’s birthday today and Hannibal had set the table while she was taking a nap. He tried very hard not to make a big fuss. ‘Sushi and Tiramisu for dessert,’ she’d ordered him a week ago. They were still living by the beach. The house was entirely decorated in pretty seashells Abigail found by the water. Her family never went to the beach. This was sort of a way of saying goodbye.

**Wrath**

Anger is something murder can feed every single time. It fed them so well. In every sense, that is. But wrath. For her, wrath rhymed with murder because she felt it in every inch of her translucent skin.

**Happily ever after**

 

**Florence**

‘I’ve always wanted to take someone I love here.’

‘Why didn’t you ever?’

‘I tried.’

‘Who was it.’

**Pain**

His darling had been in the bathroom for an hour. The door was locked. She cried and yelled, telling him to leave her alone. He’d done nothing to upset her. They had spent the past few days visiting the city they decided to move to. He even let her bring her cat. Hannibal was not used to console someone he had tender feelings for. After a while he sat against the wall by the bathroom. And later she slowly opened the door. He immediately stood before her and protectively put his hands on her shoulders. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red, her face still dripping with tears.

‘I want...I want...’ she whispered between sobs.

‘What do you want?’

Her head dropped on his chest. ‘You.’

**Somewhere to hide**

‘Hannibal?’

‘Yes?’

‘They... Um...’

‘It’s alright. Sit down.’

‘Please tell me what we’re going to do.’

‘We must leave. Leave Florence.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night. We are going to take a train to Austria and fly from there.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere they won’t find us.’

**Euphoria III**

Hannibal liked to be strangled. Abigail did too. Hannibal hated praise. Abigail loved it. After getting fucked, Abigail just wanted to sleep in the crook of his shoulder. However, he often wanted to keep going. Sometimes she let him. Sometimes she went on her stomach to rest and let him in again. It depended. Sometimes she would start to cry, he would stop and tell her it was okay, that she was safe and that he would always be here to protect her and defend her and hold her. Euphoria was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all liked it! Comments are always appreciated <3


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